


every good apothecary needs a stuffed crocodile

by trash_rendar



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Crack, Crack Pairing, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Talk, Fearplay, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rarepair, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Teratophilia, fear kink, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_rendar/pseuds/trash_rendar
Summary: An unlikely pair of arch-criminals make the most of a stormy night in Gotham.Or: Some absolute crack smut that demanded to be written when I should have been working on literally anything else. I apologize in advance.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Waylon Jones
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	every good apothecary needs a stuffed crocodile

**Author's Note:**

> *pee wee herman voice* this is crack
> 
> First-ever smut fic, feedback appreciated

A storm is hammering Gotham by the time they’re finally finished setting up. Wind sets the bones of the geriatric tenement creaking; rainfall hammers against the walls; far above, thunder softly rumbles. The neon-dazzled dreamscape of the freeway below becomes a xanthous watercolor smudge cast faintly through the bedroom window; coupled with the candles lit on the endtables and bedframe, it casts a pall over the scene – the kind of lurid, smoky ambience that seeps into the bones, holds anticipation in the air thick and hot, like a humid day in summer. The kind that makes one feel dirtied, even without doing anything.

It’s an appropriate atmosphere for their purposes, Jonathan thinks. What a shame Waylon isn’t currently able to appreciate it.

He considers the shoot of straw in his hand, a twig of chemically-infused grass held between equally-twiggy fingertips. Truth be told, it’s not his proudest work – though an accomplished chemist in his own right, aphrodisiacs aren’t really his wheelhouse – but that old saw about spicing things up in the bedroom had gotten in his head, enough to produce this blade of specialized, defanged fear straw as a trial run. It’s certainly a strange way to apply his knowledge, but at the very least, it wouldn’t make the night worse. He hopes.

He pivots on the ball of one foot, laying eyes on the bed. Scarecrow’s burlap face watches him expectantly from where it fits loosely atop one bedpost; under the collar of its hempen necktie is wrapped a thick leather cuff secured by a short chain to another, which in turn holds a thick, scaly ankle prisoner. His gaze follows the thick trunk of leg along bare calf and thigh, up along a waist and stomach and chest, all distinctly and repellently reptilian - until finally his eyes find the face of his unlikely lover.

Killer Croc is still as monstrous as ever, but he’s not nearly so intimidating blindfolded and cuffed to the bed, with a big red ball gag stuffed in his mouth. But then, it would be a tough sell for anyone to look fearsome trussed up in such a manner even clad in something other than a prison-orange jockstrap – a choice in lingere that makes Crane’s plain gray sweatpants less ‘conservative’ and more ‘sexually-repressed introvert circa Victorian Age’ by comparison.

The Croc writhes restlessly atop the sheets; iron links clink softly against each other as Waylon grumbles into the candy-red sphere forcing his jaws apart. He’s impatient, clearly – ready to get started. Jonathan is, too.

The straw breaks in half with a pleasantly supple snap; both broken ends smoke like smoldering matchsticks. Crane sets both ends upright in a shallow bowl so their chemical infusions can soak into the room like incense. He pulls the burlap mask and hood off the bedpost and over his face, tips his head back, and takes a slow, deep breath.

Then Scarecrow looks back down at the bed and its massive occupant, and clears his throat.

“Waylon? Waylooon… Can you hear me, Waylon? I know you can,” he chortles.

Croc grunts indifferently. Clearly play-acting somewhat eludes him. At least he’s willing to indulge his lover’s eccentricities, Jonathan supposes.

“I have good news for you,” Scarecrow croons. “I finally found a needle strong and sharp enough to penetrate your thick, scaly hide. Someday very soon, I’ll be able to pump you full of all the fear toxin your reptilian physiology can tolerate. Isn’t that exciting?”

He starts to pad towards the foot of the bed, trailing his fingers over Croc’s abs; each muscle is almost the size of his whole hand, so thick and powerful as to be platelike. Scarecrow has always appreciated his lover’s preternatural size and strength; his lizard-like peculiarities, those aspects which make the ordinary rabble cringe and recoil, only underscore Waylon’s unique and intrinsic capacity to inspire terror. He finds their relationship doubly satisfying – the carnal aspect thereof, anyway – for exactly these reasons.

The pads of his fingertips run over the waistband concealing his loins and down the thick, pliant curve of his outer thigh and knee. He can feel Croc’s tendons through his scales, pulsing with potentially lethal energy – energy that is being carefully held in check. It’s goes against Croc’s nature, he knows, to allow himself to be helpless, to be willingly beholden to the whims of another – he knows this because it goes against Scarecrow’s nature, too. It makes him feel strangely warm that Waylon is willing to go this far, and for some strange reason, it makes it easier for Jonathan to follow him all the way.

“Aren’t you excited, Waylon? To finally be able to contribute to my research? I’ve never studied my toxins on reptiles before, you know. We’re on the precipice of a breakthrough in criminal chemical science. Isn’t that wonderful?” His fingertips, finally running out of leg, curve around the arch of Croc’s foot. The beast’s claws twitch as Scarecrow’s sackcloth lips turn upwards in a grin. “Or does it _terrify_ you that at any moment I could pierce your hide and turn you _sick_ with fear?”

There’s a low, deep rumble, sounding from somewhere in the crocodile’s chest. He chews on the gag like a dog with a bone, spittle spilling down the corners of his mouth.

“Waylon? Wayyy-looon? … Or would you prefer Croc?”

This time, he grunts.

“I thought you might,” Scarecrow chuckles darkly. “The names our sort choose for ourselves are always more appealing than those we are given, aren’t they.”

He climbs up onto the mattress, kneeling between Croc’s spread legs, and pulls something from the pocket of his sweats. He swipes his teeth with a dry tongue as he looms lower and lower over the massive, scaly trunk beneath him.

“I have the needle right here, Croc,” he whispers, almost reverently. “Yes, right here, in my fingers. Loaded with 300 cc’s of my strongest toxin serum. What do you think that much fear coursing through your bloodstream will do to you, Croc? What will it _feel_ like? What will it make you _see_?”

He doesn’t actually have a syringe. Instead he has an old wooden knitting needle, thick as the thickest of his fingers, tapering to a slender, blunted tip. He dangles the point over Waylon’s skin, letting it ride along the crest of his muscles, tracing an aimless, meandering path all over his torso; its point drags against Croc’s scales with an audible clinking.

“Where shall I inject you, big boy? Your chest? Your stomach? Straight through the muscle layer, or should I try to look for a vein first? I have the time, now, and… _options_. Now that I’ve got you right where I want you.”

Croc tenses and squirms as it wanders over his skin. How fascinating, Scarecrow muses, that the body will respond to the sensation of a possible threat even when one knows intellectually that they’re in no danger at all!

… Except, of course, for the possibility that he _could_ be. Only the Scarecrow had the freedom to decide for sure.

God, the anticipation was delicious, even for a roleplay scenario. He should have given this a try _years_ ago.

He can tell Waylon finds it as titillating as he does when the point of his dowel glides over the smooth, scaly plate where his lover’s nipple would have been; Croc growls and snorts and arcs his back against the sheets, the corners of his jaw pulling back in something like a grin. He rumbles again, a sonorous note of impatience.

“Want me to get it over with, do you? You should know by now that putting on a brave face will do you little good with me.” Crane leans low, low, low, pressing his own bare torso flat against Croc’s stomach, draping his arms across his chest and lacing his hands behind his neck. “Or would you rather I… _penetrate_ you somewhere else, hm?”

Another growl. Massive thighs rub restlessly against Scarecrow’s own waist. It feels a bit like being lightly jostled around by monster truck tires, and Crane has to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Paaaatience, my dear. Forgive your love a little theater.”

Jones shakes his head with a snarl. He swivels his hips, poking Scarecrow’s waist insistently with the growing bulge between his legs. He needs gratification soon, if not _now_.

It’s … _stimulating_ , Scarecrow decides, watching Gotham’s sewer monster unravel under his fingertips.

“It must be _killing_ you, hmm? The waiting. The anticipation. Stewing in your own desires ‘til you burn up inside. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” He cranes his neck to put his burlap lips to Croc’s ear and whispers: “You’d like to _punish_ me for it, wouldn’t you? Burst your chains, throw me to the floor, and fuck me silly for making you wait. You’ve been dreaming about it since I tied the blindfold on, haven’t you?”

Croc _hrrrrrs_. With their bodies pressed so close together, Crane can feel the vibration rumble deep in Croc’s stomach through his own navel. The beast tips his nose back and coughs into his gag, haughtily.

“No need to play coy,” Scarecrow coos. His cheeks are hot under the mask as he traces a finger-eight into Croc’s chest. “I dream about it, too,” he confesses.

The aphrodisiac must be working - Waylon seems receptive to its effects, if the needy poke against his waist is anything to go by, but Scarecrow would never admit something so intimate under normal circumstances. He makes a mental note to go over the formula for future improvements as his wandering fingers count off Croc’s ribs through the pale scales of his underbelly.

Croc doesn’t growl this time so much as _whine_. He blows a blast of hot air through his nostrils, noisily bobbling the gag in his mouth, and makes some guttural sounds that could vaguely pass for words.

“What was that, dear? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

The same noises – slower this time, louder. It sounds like he could be saying “Shut up and _fuck_ me already.”

Scarecrow chortles. “Aren’t you forgetting the magic word, my dear?”

Another whine, long and plaintive. Its pleading tone makes something unspool in the pit of Scarecrow’s groin.

“I guess that’s close enough,” Crane simpers thoughtfully. His hand drifts down towards the waistband of Croc’s jockstrap. “And you’ve been _such_ a good boy tonight…”

His fingertips glide over the mesh fabric; the material is pulled taut, barely keeping Croc under wraps as his cock grows beneath its thin nylon covering. A fitting metaphor for Croc’s position tonight, Scarecrow thinks, fingertips riding its long, steep curve upwards; it twitches longingly at his touch, straining under the nylon blend, and when he reaches its tip he finds the mesh already moist. He reverses the motion, repeats it, and watches a trickle of drool slide down Waylon’s chin.

Killer Croc arcs his hips, pushing his needy cock into his lover’s palm. If he were physically capable of begging, in his own intense way, Scarecrow has no doubt he would be; as it is, he chews on the ball forcing his jaws apart, grunting with frustration. Wrists and ankles twist fitfully in their bonds, rattling their chains.

Scarecrow finally takes pity on the poor thing. He raises himself languidly back up to a kneeling position, planting his palms on either side of Croc’s hips and pushing his thighs against those on either side of his own. Then he begins to rock his waist – slowly, gently, grinding his crotch against Waylon’s even as his hand continues to massage his cock and balls. Croc purrs, reciprocating in kind; together, they slowly build up, matching and then increasing the speed at which they frot each other.

Croc huffs and puffs like a steam engine as Crane brings him closer and closer to the edge; he clenches and unclenches his fists against the bedframe, ultimately grasping the slatted headboard with both hands and pumping his hips up into Scarecrow’s with a groan. This time, his lanky lover doesn’t bother playing the dom; he curls his fingers under the overtaxed waistband of Waylon’s underwear, pulling and twisting the fabric pouch to one side until Croc’s dick can stand free and proud.

A reverent whisper hisses past the Scarecrow’s lips as he tugs the front of his sweats down below his waist: “God, I never get tired of seeing you, Waylon. Seeing how grotesque you truly are – feeling the same rush of revulsion and fear that the common rabble does when they see you walk among them. No one else can inspire terror the way you do, no one except perhaps the Bat. You’re a monster, Waylon, a freak - a miracle of the genetic lottery. And I love you for it. It makes you beautiful.”

The mass of scaly flesh beneath him groans again. He isn’t used to being praised for the same features that made him an outcast and a criminal, but every word Jonathan says to him is the truth. He’s too far in to hold it all back now; the words pour out of him like a waterfall as he strokes himself with lubricant.

“You are b-beautiful, Waylon. Horrid and monstrous and beautiful. The philistines on the Gotham streets – they don’t ssssee. Don’t see how – “ He chokes on his own lust. “How sexy you are. How you’ve transcended that common human form… God – G-god, you make my heart race just thinking about you…”

Outside, the rain is picking up. Thunder rumbles. Obligingly, Croc plants his feet and lifts his hips, raising his ass off the bedspread; Scarecrow’s hands glide around his waist and cups a greedy handful in each, kneading and spreading. When he can no longer stomach to wait, he at last guides his cock, dripping in a glaze of lube, into Croc’s asshole.

The fit is surprisingly tight. Even Crane, slender and tapered, meets with no small amount of resistance. He soldiers on and pushes in, slow and gentle; Croc fits him like a perfectly-tailored glove. They both gasp when he at last finds himself fully sheathed. As he pulls himself back out, he drowns Croc’s crotch in lube, wraps his spindly fingers around his massive member, and begins to pump. He keeps pumping even as he slides back in, their groins meeting with a soft wet slap.

Croc’s earlier grunting is now more of an unceasing animal grumble; Scarecrow himself can hardly keep himself from groaning and whimpering as he accelerates. Outside, the crack of thunder mixes with the wail of a police siren, and the flash from both combine in the panoply of blurry light dancing on the windowpanes.

“ _Fffffuck_ , Waylon,” Jonathan hisses. He stutters hosannas between every thrust. “Gg – God, I – _guhhh_ fuck, fuck-k. So – so gorgeous. Beautiful. Ssssexy. God, Waylon, you – I – _sssss_ , ahh, ff- _fuck_ \---”

Waylon can’t respond. Not intelligibly, anyway. Even without the ball gag, he’d be struggling to speak from so deep within the throes of his own arousal – and even then, most of his half-lidded groaning, the animalistic music of complete ecstasy, comes across clearly regardless. If he could speak, he’d like to think he’d be saying something charming – purring sweet Cajun-flavored nothings into Jonathan’s ear as he rides him like a gator wrangler.

But honestly? He’d probably still be exactly where he is now – blissfully out of his mind and enjoying every second of it.

A thin sheen of sweat dapples Scarecrow’s pale shoulders as they approach the peak. He thrusts faster and faster into Croc even as he pumps with desperate, slick fingers; his breath rushes in and out of his lungs with a high, nasally rasp, like wind whistling through a condemned house. The storm outside pounds in thick sheets against the window, rattling the glass in a staccato that matches tempo with the creaking of the bedframe.

“Almost,” Jonathan promises. “Almossss-t-t-t---”

His next plunge touches something off in Waylon – suddenly, he knows, deep down in his soul, that there’s no more holding back. His limbs pull on their chains, made loose and weak by the night’s exertion; one by one the weakest in their links burst, as if they’d never been holding him back at all. Croc’s legs wrap their thick trunks tight around Crane’s narrow waist, pulling him as deep inside as he can go; in the same instant, a clawed hand grabs the hanging tail of the Scarecrow’s noose and pulls him, choking in surprise but not pain, into a one-armed bear hug against his trunk.

They climax simultaneously. Scarecrow shudders and whines as he comes, emptying himself almost completely into Waylon in a single, lengthy burst; Croc manages one last, animal bleat before his orgasm explodes like a shotgun blast against Crane’s bare stomach. He comes twice more as they fade into the rapturous afterglow; it oozes out from between their hips and dribbles down his scales and onto the rumpled bedsheets. A crash of lightning from outside punctuates the scene.

They cling to each other, completely exhausted, as the storm begins to subside. Jonathan pulls the faux-hangman’s knot around his neck undone like a tie and lets himself drape over Croc’s belly, gently rising and falling with every breath the massive criminal takes. Croc pulls the blindfold and gag off his face, smacking his lips and blinking his eyes like a sleepy dog as one huge palm glides up and down along Crane’s spine, counting off every vertebrae through his thin pale skin. The sound of their breathing fills the room as a wave of euphoria washes over them.

The sputtering straw peters out in its bowl; candles burn out in their wicks. A haze of thin, sweet-tasting smoke settles over the room.

When he recovers strength enough to move, Croc cranes his neck upwards and peers down his snout. He can see Jonathan’s eyelids through his mask, barely staying open as he cuddles his overgrown lover as best he can with his own gangly limbs. Waylon cleans themselves off as delicately as he can manage given his condition, making Jonathan and himself at least presentable before maneuvering the Scarecrow into a more comfortable position at his side; Crane is so exhausted he offers no resistance at all, only moving once he’s done to wind his spindly-thin arms back around wide, scaly hips and rest his chin on Croc’s shoulder.

Carefully, carefully, Waylon tugs the Scarecrow mask off Jonathan’s head. Dark locks matted with sweat spill out of the burlap sack as it pulls away, unkemptly framing a slim, pale face where they fall. Watercolor moonlight falls over Crane’s features as his eyelids flutter in the stale, humid air.

Croc hums thoughtfully as he swipes a lock of hair back into its proper place with a thumb. The finger lingers on a cheekbone as flinty eyes look up into his.

“That’s a pretty mouth on you, _cher_ ,” he rumbles. His mouth widens into a toothy grin. “Gonna look even prettier with that gag in it.”

Crane sighs contentedly, squirming closer. “So I was right,” he murmurs, “when I said you were dreaming about your revenge.”

“Mhm. Now I get to make _you_ wait, _palliasse_ ,” Croc chuckles.

They speak no more on the matter; the unspoken promise made, they don’t have to. The distant drumming of the rain lulls Scarecrow fast asleep. In time, Killer Croc joins him.


End file.
